


Next Year all our Troubles will be out of Sight--Sam

by sjhw_tolerance (mscorkill)



Series: 2010 Christmas Challenge [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mscorkill/pseuds/sjhw_tolerance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ambassador's wife makes one last attempt to persuade Jack O'Neill that the alliance with the Aschen is a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Year all our Troubles will be out of Sight--Sam

**Author's Note:**

> When I saw this year’s Sam & Jack list Christmas challenge, I was a bit dismayed (okay, maybe distraught is the better word); and as I commented to [info]anr, I should have seen it coming. 2010 has never been one of my favorite episodes, we all know how strongly I feel about Sam and Jack being paired up with other people. I also find it difficult to write (or care) about AU characters that will never exist.
> 
> In the process of trying to come up with a way to write a 2010 Christmas fic that didn’t actually involve the episode, and meeting with little success, I finally commented to dannylurks that surely I could come up with a thousand words in the 2010 AU. And once I actually surrendered, the story came easily.
> 
> This is not your usual ‘Sue’ fic. I would remind you, gentle reader, that it didn’t end will for any of them in 2010.
> 
> Dedicated to Ness and all the other angst lovers out there.
> 
> Originally posted December 2010

NEXT YEAR ALL OUR TROUBLES WILL BE OUT OF SIGHT

“You’re the only one he’ll listen to, Sam.”

“Daniel….”

“He’s right, honey. Please do this. Not just for me, but for all of us.”

Sam doesn’t realize her hand is clenched in a fist until her husband of less than a month reaches over and rests his hand on hers, squeezing gently. She glances at him, not sure what she’ll see on his face and she isn’t as surprised as she should be when all she sees is nothing. Of the small group gathered around the table in the upscale restaurant, Janet is the only one who looks at all troubled by the request currently on the table.

“You know how much this means. Mollem has expressed a personal interest in this matter.” More persuasion from her husband; ever the diplomat, using careful phrasing that makes following orders a request, but the intent is still evident—if Mollem wants it, Mollem will get it.

“Janet?”

Her friend has the grace to look uncomfortable, but her answer is still a disappointment. “I think they’re right. We need to put this whole issue to rest.”

Her husband looks at his watch and then offers her a reluctant smile. “My driver should be here. Can’t keep the Aschen cultural attaché waiting.” He stands and the overly attentive maître d’ materializes, coat in hand. “You’ll take care of this right away?”

Sam smiles her best ambassador’s wife smile. “Of course, dear,” offering him her cheek when he leans down to kiss her goodbye.

“We'll have to do this again soon,” he tells Janet and Daniel. And he addresses her once more, “I’ll be home late,” he tells her and she senses an undercurrent in his tone that disappoints her. “Don’t wait up.”

She watches him walk out and disappear into the December evening before turning back to their dinner companions. The gaiety and pleasure of their holiday dinner party with friends has vanished, the festive atmosphere seems cheap and tawdry to her now and the classic strains of O Holy Night playing discreetly in the background seem to mock her. Daniel slides a piece of paper across the table towards her. “You can find him here most nights.”

Sam picks up the paper; The Tropics, with an address placing it on the furthest edges of the city. She looks at Daniel and sees the sympathy and concern that was lacking in her husband.

“He’ll listen to you, Sam.”

She picks up her purse and stands, ignoring the hovering man holding her coat for the moment and answers, her voice flat. “He never has before.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sat-nav in the Mercedes guides her to the bar; the garish neon sign with alternately blinking palm trees seems out of place in the lightly falling snow. The rustic building is worn down, appearing even more bedraggled with a front door flanked by plastic palm trees that have seen better days, their twinkling lights flashing erratically. As she slows down and turns into the parking lot, Sam wonders if she should go home and change into something more suitable. Her fine wool pants and cashmere sweater will undoubtedly be out of place, not to mention her fur coat, but she doesn’t. Just like she doesn’t turn around and drive away when she recognizes the beat-up black pick-up in the parking lot. She’ll be the good wife and do her duty.

The bar is overheated, the air stale and she stands for a moment inside the door, trying to orient herself. It’s dark and there’s the faint odor of cigarette smoke and the stronger odor of unwashed bodies and old beer. A plastic Santa perched behind the bar, wearing a grass skirt and lei, completes the tacky decoration scheme while over an aging sound system, Burl Ives cautions “you better watch out, you better not cry,” which strikes Sam as more of a warning than a proclamation of holiday cheer. The middle-aged bartender gives her a cursory glance, and a few other heads turn at the interruption her arrival brings. But before curiosity can get the better of the clientele, she sees a familiar shock of silver hair and she makes her way to the back booth where he sits.

Sam slips onto the bench seat opposite him and waits. He looks as disreputable as his surroundings, his lean face grizzled and unshaven, his hair, while still short, is even more unkempt than she remembers. In a flannel shirt, down vest and jeans, he blends in with the rest of the crowd, but she suddenly realizes it’s a façade when he finally looks at her; his dark eyes are just as clear and sharp as ever.

An indifferent looking waitress appears and sets down a fresh beer in front of Jack, then looks at her. “What can I get you, hon?”

“The same,” Sam tells her.

The waitress saunters off and Jack takes a long swallow of his beer before finally acknowledging her. “Carter. Oh wait, its Mrs. Faxon now, isn’t it?”

“Jack, please,” she says, ignoring the jibe. They’ve danced this particular dance before and she sees no point in prolonging the pleasantries. “The new administration needs you, your country needs you.”

“My country doesn’t exist anymore.”

“You know that’s not true!”

“Tell me, Sam. Who sent you here? Daniel? The Ambassador? Or was it good old Mollem?”

She can’t meet his eyes. “We’re all concerned for you.” She knows it’s futile, but she owes it to the others…to her husband…to keep trying. “Jack, you should see the wonderful things they’re doing. The advances in medicine alone are staggering. Not to mention that we can finally live in peace. I just don’t understand why you’re fighting this.”

His eyes harden. “Because no one else is.”

“So you’re just doing it to be what—stubborn?”

He leans forward, his eyes intense and his voice low. “They have an agenda, Sam. And it’s not all sharing and benevolence. They want something from us.”

“You’re just being blind.”

“I’m not the only one.” They fall silent when the waitress returns with her beer and Sam takes a sip of the bitter ale, only to set it back down. “Not good enough for the ambassador’s wife?”

Her heart breaks a bit. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be once they’d defeated the Goa’uld; their life should have been so different. “Jack, please. Isn’t there anything I can do to make you change your mind?”

She doesn’t look away when he openly studies her then, his eyes and expression insolent, and a grim look of satisfaction slowly fills his face. “Let’s get out of here.” He tosses a couple of twenties down on the table and she follows him out into the cold night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If she’d been stronger, she would have kept on driving when his truck turned into the parking lot of the shabby motel a mile down the road from the bar. But she doesn’t, she pulls in and parks, waiting in her car until he comes out of the office, shivering as the temperature inside slowly drops. She doesn’t have to get out of her car and follow him silently to the room at the end of the one-storey complex, walking past the faint sounds of voices and other lives, but she does.

He unlocks the door and she seals her fate by following him into the dark room. The door barely has time to shut behind her when he presses her back up against it, his mouth hot and hungry on hers, his hands moving roughly over her body. Her coat falls off her shoulders and he’s pulling at her expensive sweater and tugging at the waistband of her slacks.

She doesn’t fight or protest and soon her mouth and hands are just as desperate as his and she moans in surrender when one of his seeking hands works its way down into her panties and finds her soaking wet. She struggles with the fastening of his jeans and finally gives up, rubbing his cock through the rough denim. His groan of pleasure is loud in the quiet room as she strokes him and he sags against her for a brief moment, his teeth fastening on the soft skin of her neck and nipping sharply, before he sweeps her up in his arms and drops her down on the bed.

The mattress sags and she shudders when he kneels over her, this isn’t how it was supposed to be, but it’s all she’ll ever have. His hands are rough when he tugs her trousers and panties down, not even caring that she only manages to get one leg free from the garments before he’s shoving his jeans and briefs down his hips. She cries out softly when he enters her immediately, her hands clutch at his shoulders as his hips piston in and out of her. She shifts, wrapping her slim legs around his hips, easing his penetration, and he groans, sliding his arms under her back and cupping her shoulders, the additional leverage taking him deeper and harder.

He buries his face in her throat and Sam feels her eyes burn as she stares up at the ceiling. It’s happening too fast and a bittersweet resignation fills her as she lets him use her. A sliver of light shines through the curtained window and she wishes she could see his face. But then she’s glad she can’t when he suddenly groans and stiffens in her arms and she feels the wet flood of his release inside her body.

Jack collapses on her, breathing heavily and she doesn’t protest. Maybe she owes him this or maybe he’s earned it; she doesn’t know anymore. When he eventually levers himself off her and stands by the side of the bed, she finally looks at him. In the dim light she can’t see his eyes, but she hears everything she needs to know when he says, “Nice try. But I won’t change my mind.”

She doesn’t move or try to cover herself when he zips up his jeans and fastens his shirt, picking his vest up off the floor from where he dropped it. He stops at the door, his hand on the knob and looks back at her saying, “The Aschen aren’t who you think they are.”

The door closes with a finality that tears at the fragments of her heart. Feeling sick, Sam staggers off the bed and into the small bathroom, fumbling for the light and just making it to the toilet before she starts heaving, losing the contents of her stomach and very expensive dinner. Shaking a little, she rinses out her mouth and splashes water on her face, barely recognizing the woman staring back at her in the harsh light of the bathroom. Maybe none of them are who they think they are.

She thought it wouldn’t matter. She thought she could wall off her emotions and give him what he needed and not feel anything. She thought if he was angry, she wouldn’t care and it would hurt less.

She thought she didn’t love him anymore.

If his kisses were angry and desperate, if his hands were rougher on her soft flesh than necessary, she hadn’t care. She had been as desperate and hungry as him. She had no illusions that what they’d done, what she had done, would change his mind. She might be the poster child for Aschen cooperation; the very chic and elegant wife of one of the most powerful men in the country. But in the end, in the dark, in a cheap motel room with Jack O’Neill, she was like every other woman.

Washing away the semen already drying on her thighs, Sam collects her discarded clothing and dresses, tugging at the neckline of her sweater in a wasted effort to hide the red mark from Jack’s lips and teeth. The muted sounds of yet another holiday television special bleed through the thin walls of the motel room, urging Sam to have a merry little Christmas and she shudders, deciding abruptly that she’s always hated that song.

Combing her hair, Sam carefully reapplies her lipstick and rearranges her features until she once more sees Mrs. Joseph Faxon staring back at her in the mirror. She is the wife of an ambassador and she holds an important position in her own right in the reorganized government. One insignificant former Air Force colonel means nothing now—to the Aschen, to the new military—or to her.

THE END


End file.
